There's blood on the floor but the worst part is you
by Cirro
Summary: You never wanted him to see this and now it's too late.


There are specks of blood spattered on the dirty wallpaper and he's shaking so bad that he's surprised he managed to keep the gun steady. The metal is still warm from his tight hold but it keeps slipping in his grip. He's panting hard, breaths vibrating down the length of his arm, hot and heavy even though his palms are slick with cold sweat.

There's a dead body at his feet. Probably still warm, blood seeping out from the remains of its skull. It was a man. Once. He had a family and a steady job until he got too greedy and started dealing with gangs and underground drugs. That happened a lot in this city, but Zoro doesn't really care. But then the guy started getting nervous. Started wanting out even though there was no way out unless you were let go by the boss, and he should have known that from the start. He started to become a nuisance. Then a liability. Needed to get taken out because he knew too much and started doing things that were a big no-no in the seedy side of town. So the boss tells him, "remove him."

He's promised that it's his last job, and then he would have had paid his debt and could move on. But for the first time since he could remember, Zoro was nervous. His nerves made him jittery and he couldn't help glancing over his shoulder just in case. Breaking into the guy's place was easy enough, and the man only managed a sobbing plea before Zoro was swinging the muzzle of the gun at his forehead. But then there was the sound of footsteps running up the steel grated stairs and then all of his nerves came back and he could barely keep the gun steady enough to pull the trigger.

But it's not the corpse that has rattled him. It's more the man standing frozen in the doorway, knuckles white against the wooden frame and silhouetted by the dim light of the street lamps outside the quiet apartment. He's still wearing that stupid suit from the restaurant, pressed and form fitting, but his blond hair is wild and messy, completely out of place for his usual self. Both his eyes are visible, and the stare is heavy enough to burn him.

He only met Sanji a couple of years ago. Zoro had been wandering the city looking for a place to relax and get shitfaced when he gave up and walked into the nearest building which, conveniently, happened to be a bar. It was in a relatively respectable place even though everyone swore like someone stuck a knife through their leg. But that was the norm in this city, and Zoro honestly prefers seedier places.

Sanji had looked out of place with his expensive looking suit with tacky golden buttons for all of ten seconds before he started pulling punches, or rather _kicks_, at some guy twice his size with arms that Popeye would have been jealous of. And then the blond had opened his mouth and started spewing profanities that could make sailors blush, and Zoro distinctly remembers his jaw dropping open because _holy shit, what is wrong with that guy?_

By the time Sanji had beaten the guy to a pulp in less than five seconds, Zoro was grinning wide enough that his cheeks hurt, slipping into the recently vacated seat next to the blond. He had given him the stink eye before turning away with a snort, throwing back his drink and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. When Sanji had motioned to the bartender for another drink, Zoro had silently offered to pay, earning a delicately raised eyebrow and a slight shrug for his generosity. They had sat there in companionable silence before Zoro decided to introduce himself.

"Sanji." The man had said. His breath had smelt like cigarette smoke.

And that was the beginning.

Zoro had never expected to keep on meeting him. "Sanji" became familiar syllables ingrained on his tongue. He met Sanji's friends, learned that he went to the local university but had become some sort of master chef in his spare time, learned that he could _fight_, something that Zoro immediately took advantage of. He had even gone over to Sanji's place to play video games using an outdated television that kept on getting static during the most intense virtual battles, and had laughed his ass off when he pushed his friend off the couch in an underhanded method to victory.

Zoro had done _normal_ things, and found that he liked it. Soon they were together often enough that they were "Zoro and Sanji" instead of their individual names, and Zoro found that he liked that even more. It wasn't uncommon for him to sleep over, or to find that Sanji had crawled into his bed late at night because he was trying to save some money and therefore didn't want to use the heater. It wasn't uncommon to find them pressed shoulder to shoulder or back to back if there weren't chairs available to lean back on.

But despite their close friendship Zoro never told him about his other life. He kept Sanji in the dark about his job, never invited him over to his place, subtly avoiding the subject with insults and jabs that he knew Sanji would react to. He knew Sanji wasn't stupid. His friend would sometimes give him a hurt look that would be immediately replaced with a cocksure smirk, laughing to cover up his real feelings. Zoro doesn't like those moments. But he knows that it was for the better.

He couldn't drag Sanji down with him. The guy _liked_ helping people even if he pretended not to. He'd even help people who tried to break his nose and gut him. Zoro knows this because he was there when it happened. He was ready to draw his knife and stab the guy's eye out for trying to hurt his friend, but Sanji had just kicked the thug in the ribs and then asked him if he was hungry and wanted food; food which he then proceeded to take out of his backpack and hand over to the man in a genuine offer of help. Zoro had been speechless.

Sanji was his best friend. Sanji was the best parts of him that rarely got to see the light of day, and it reminded him that he was human. It was unfair how quickly he had wormed his way into his life even if he always smelled like the toxic fumes of his cigarette pack.

And so he had went to the boss and asked for permission to leave. And then he got his last job. He doesn't think it's coincidence that Sanji had somehow found him here.

"Zoro."

He jolts in place at the sound of his name. It's whispered and tremulous, and it sounds so out of place within the silence of the room. His mouth feels dry and he suddenly realizes that his breathing still hasn't slowed down. But his vision has narrowed down to the doorframe, eyes fixed on his best fucking friend in the entire goddamn world. His friend who is carefully approaching him with hands lifted in a placating gesture in the air, and Zoro feels wretched.

His throat is closing up, and he watches in fear (_fear of what?_) when Sanji comes closer and closer. Zoro can't really make out the features of his face because the shadows are in the way, and it makes him feel even worse. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales roughly through clenched teeth.

Sanji isn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to see this. Everything's ruined, and the worst part of it all is that it's Zoro's fault.

When he feels cool fingers touch his cheek, his eyes fly open.

"Zoro."

His fingertips are brushing along his jaw, skimming under his eyes, and the gesture is so gentle and so out of place but at the same time _not_ because Sanji has such a kind heart, and Zoro can't stand any of it. Here, in this blood soaked room with a fucking _corpse_ at his feet, with Sanji who doesn't understand anything, Zoro feels like everything is skewed and turned inside out, and he _hates _it. He smacks Sanji's hands away, _don't hurt his hands-_ and screams,

"Didn't you see what I did?!"

His head feels heavy, dizzy with half formed thoughts and the terrible feeling that he's about to lose his friend forever. He's angry and afraid, and he can't bring himself to even look at his friend. All he can see is the blood spattered on the wall and staining the hardwood floor red.

He's a murderer.

He barely feels it when Sanji wraps his hands into his coat and tugs him into an embrace until he's face to face with Sanji's blue collared shirt. He claimed it was his favourite when Zoro shoved it at him on his birthday.

"Zoro."

Zoro feels it more than he hears it this time, but it sounds more like a comfort than a condemnation now, and suddenly he's clutching at Sanji's suit jacket, wrapping his arms around his friend and burying his face into his neck and noting the clean scent. He grits his teeth harder when he sees blood smearing into Sanji's pale skin, and he feels horrible and relieved all at once because at least it's over.

Sanji's hands are running up his spine and stroking soothing circles into his back, and he allows himself to melt into the embrace. Sanji's been mumbling something for a while, and Zoro feels relief flood his veins when he hears,

"It's okay, marimo. It's going to be okay."

He knows it's a lie, but for the moment he lets himself believe that it's true.

* * *

Originally posted on August 2, 2014.


End file.
